That evening, after supper, Miss Plinlimmon declined her customary
game of cards with me, on the pretence that she felt tired, and sat
for a long while fumbling with a newspaper, which I recognized for a
week-old copy of the "Falmouth Packet." At length she rose abruptly,
and, crossing over to the table where I sat playing dominoes (right
hand against left), thrust the paper before me, and pointed with a
trembling finger.

"There, Harry! What would you say to that?"

I brushed my dominoes aside, and read--

"The Reverend Philip Stimcoe, B.A., (Oxon.), of Copenhagen Academy,
7. Delamere Terrace, begs to inform the Nobility, Clergy, and Gentry
of Falmouth and the neighbourhood that he has Vacancies for a limited
number of Pupils of good Social Standing. Education classical, on
the lines of the best Public Schools, combined with Home Comforts
under the personal supervision of Mrs. Stimcoe (niece of the late
Hon. Sir Alexander O'Brien, R.N., Admiral of the White, and K.C.B.).
Backward and delicate boys a speciality. Separate beds. Commodious
playground in a climate unrivalled for pulmonary ailments. Greenwich
time kept."

I did not criticise the advertisement. It sufficed me to read my
release in it; and in the same instant I knew how lonely the last few
months had been, and felt myself an ingrate. I that had longed
unspeakably, if but half consciously, for the world beyond Minden
Cottage--a world in which I could play the man--welcomed my liberty
by laying my head on my arms and breaking into unmanly sobs.